And now, finally, he was bending over the contents of the brown envelope, mechanically reading the familiar registration formulae and still more automatically printing name, address, name, address, in countless little squares. He felt virtuous at the mere fact of being here, smugly so at being here on time, considering the conspiracy of God and man to keep him out of New England.

The dank, dark, bar of a small-town hotel somewhere in up-state New York. Here they were, the whole train-load of them, stranded, with wash-outs ahead and bridges, out behind, isolated on a flood-girdled island. He was wet and weary and he thought rather apprehensively of the rising waters all around, but the beer was good and, by God, this was adventure of a sort. Out of another day was this dingy room, with its hideously-hewn, dirty-mirrored bar, its splintery floor, its dirty walls plastered with reward notices of rogues, new ond old. On these same walls wee now cavorting much more fearsome bogies, phantasmagoric giants projected by the few candles guttering in the necks of empty liquor bottles. And there was the hero of the occasion, swaying in the midst of admiring passengers and local good fellows. Stodgily and solemnly he repeated his story of discovering a wash-out in the rear of his farm, then trudging through the hurricane to town "in these clothes" (pointing to his town finery), thus saving the express from certainly thundering to its doom.

The garishly-lighted station-master's room in Albany, whence a bus had finally churned its way. Amid the bedlam of ringing bells and frantically shouting railroaders, the young assistant parried the thrusts of angry passengers. "But it's an Act of God. Yes, we're sorry you were stalled thirty hours, but we can't help it. This office can't do anything. Jack, number five will proceed at ten miles per hour beyond Schenectady. You'll have to see the Passenger Agent. But I've told you we can't locate him. Number Seven to Chicago: two coaches, diner, five standard Pullmans. It's an Act of God. It won't help you to call the Governor. . . ."

On board the non-stop Boston plane with its comfortable reclining chairs. They had been herded to the City, then turned loose to get to Boston as best they could. But there wre no trains, no busses, and boats were solidly booked days in advance. He had been fortunate to get this reservation, having applied just when the airline realized the necessity of four extra sections to each plane. Below was the record of the disaster, two-dimensional shambles where there had been summer homes, a Connecticut River which seemed to extend from New York to Boston.

The Vagabond swore aloud as he suddenly discovered that he had written Albany, New York, in the space marked "College or Local Address."